One, on more distant perch, more clear
But fainter, brags him still;
But ah! he promises, I fear,
More than his master's household will fulfil.
The sound invades each silent wood,
Awakes each slumbering bird,
Till every fowl leads forth her brood,
Which in her nest the tuneful summons heard.
Methinks that Time has reached his prime;
Eternity is in the flower;
And this the faint, confused chime
That ushers in the sacred hour.
And has Time got so forward then?
From what perennial fount of joy
Dost thou inspire the hearts of men,
And teach them how the daylight to employ?
From thy abundance pray impart,
Who dost so freely spill,
Some bravery unto my heart,
And let me taste of thy perennial rill.
There is such health and length of years
In the elixir of thy note,
That God himself more young appears
From the rare bragging of thy throat.
These rough and daring verses have less value as poems than as quaint expressions of Thoreau's delicate perceptions. In the same
[xvii]
